


Of miracles and pouring wine

by courgette96



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Kid Tony Stark, M/M, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Tony-centric, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:30:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4261698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courgette96/pseuds/courgette96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This God is change and chaos. Destruction and rebirth.</p><p>Tony reads the words and finds them beautiful.</p><p>And so he finds his religion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of miracles and pouring wine

**Author's Note:**

> This fic borrows heavily from Asatru, a polytheist faith mostly focused on honoring the Aesir and Vanir gods and goddesses. HOWEVER, in no way do I claim this to be an accurate representation of that religion. For starters, all I know about it comes from the internet. Moreover, being raised in a catholic environment, I am certain that some imagery or vocabulary slipped into this fic without me being aware of it. 
> 
> So although I tried writing this with the utmost respect and sensitivity, I am not above criticism in how I approached this theme. If there are any issues with the content of the fic, let me know and I'll do my best to fix it.
> 
> No beta, all mistakes are mine.

 “I don’t need a God,” Howard Stark would say, “I already do miracles.”

 And what miracles they are, made of metal and fire, light and smoke. His workshop is always a chaos of noise and sights, loud and dangerous and blowing like the wind until they coalesce into an explosion or shape themselves in a weapon that means both destruction and progress.

 Tony Stark watches sometimes, hidden behind the door, and at five years of age he decides it is the most wondrous sight he will ever see.

 There are other children, at school or in the parks, who worship a God in their home. This God speaks of morals, of right and wrong, order and rules and solemn forms of worship.

 Tony doesn’t care for such a divinity. He has already seen the beauty and the miracle of chaos, which is so much more than the theory he reads about in books no other of his age will read. The world is made of rules, physics and math and law, and a true miracle happens when those rules are bent and breached to form something beautiful.

 Like a man in blue and red, defeating armies and saving worlds, the greatest miracle his father has ever produced.

 But Howard Stark makes a poor god, too distant and cold, imposing rules upon Tony that he will not follow, and if Tony wanted such a god he would go to the same church those other children go to.

 So at seven years of age Tony Starks turns towards books, who have yet to fail him, except these books speak not of equations and theorems, but of tales from long ago where deities walked the earth.

 Tony Stark finds his own god.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Loki. Loptr. Hveðrungr. Trickster. Deceiver. Bringer of change.

 Tony traces the words on the pages that are becoming his holy scriptures. He reads of tricks and lies, destroying truths and purifying fire.

 Neither good nor evil, but anarchic, breaking rules and spurring gods, and from his defiance come magical hammers and mighty steeds, spears and ships and Death-Queens.

 Tony reads the words and finds them beautiful.

 No following for this god, he has found. No cult for the Slanderer, for the foolish other men favor Thunderers and Kings, obvious strength to reassure themselves in their weakness, and oh, does this strike deep within Tony.

 He is a lonely child, and lonely children identify so much with those who are ostracized, less favored. He is a turbulent child, and turbulent children rejoice in tricks and traps, clever escapes and sly bargains. He is a greedy child, and he will be this god’s sole follower, for then that god will be solely his.

 “Loki,” Tony whispers, and it is his first prayer.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 His first act in his god’s name is to lie. Tony thinks he would approve.

 He is a determined little brat, he will not stray from the path he has chosen, unless something better comes along. (But this worship is still new, still fresh and exciting and against everything those slow and dismissive adults believe in, and all that will make the shine last a long time.)

 He is also a smart kid, so he knows that this will have to be kept secret, else fathers and teachers and even beloved butlers will never stop pestering him until he gives up this “foolish fancy”. So when Jarvis inquires about the young master’s reading habits, he talks about warriors and giant wolves and the end of the world, so much better than any comic his father has given him. When Howard Stark talks and praises the man with a blue and red shield, Tony nods along whilst thinking of the man with a silver tongue.

 This is secret, Loki is his, and his father is welcome to have the soldier from the past if it means Tony can keep the god that shapes the future. Howard leaves sometimes, abandoning the son who is there to go look for the man he has lost, and that son’s heart no longer breaks, for he has already found something much more worthwhile.

 Loki stays, Loki proves his father a fool, and Tony loves him for it.

 So even though he is still too young to do the proper ceremonies, too young to be let anywhere near the meads or the fire, he does his own celebrations and rituals, to the best of his ability.

 Children set aside milk and cookies for Santa Claus. Tony sets them aside for Loki.

 It is a small offering, but it is the best he can do. And when his father returns tired and defeated, too overcome in sorrow to even raise his voice against his child, Tony knows his god is pleased.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 His first disappointment comes when he discovers that there are rules after all.

 Well, not rules, per se, but guidelines, recommendations, whatever, it’s close enough to rules that Tony pouts upon learning about them.

 He looks at the words on the pages once more, from the book he had to order all the way from Europe to obtain.

 Courage, Truth, Honor, Fidelity, Discipline, Hospitality, Industry, Self-Reliance, and Perseverance.

 They’re not all that bad, he reasons, these virtues he is supposed to follow. Some of them he even holds in high regard, but others….

 Tony has never been one for Discipline, for starters, and doesn’t do much in the way of Truth.

 So maybe he does not practice everything perfectly yet. Out of the nine virtues, he chooses three he can and will follow at his young age. A fourth for later, when he will have his own home to welcome others to.

 The rest are discarded for now, but that’s okay. He is still young.

 They will come in time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 He does pranks. He sasses off. He lies a lot.

 Howard, his mother and Jarvis all berate him for it.

 But they don’t understand, do they? Tony is doing this for Loki, he must be like Loki. He has given himself to his god, he must follow through.

 If you do something do it all the way, his father says. Surely this counts?

 This is what he believes, until the day he sneaks into his father’s lab. There are many tools here, some too heavy for him to carry properly. It’s alright though, because those he can reach are more than enough to create fire.

 He watches the flame dance on the match as the air draft courses through it.

 Is this not Loptr here?

 It is a small sweep of air, so small but just strong enough to bend the flame just so, to make it touch the stack of papers just there, and then the small flame becomes big.

 Tony jumps back, the match in his hand dropping on the tiles and fizzling out, its purpose already fulfilled.

 There is a pyre in the lab; Tony cannot control it.

 He tries, futile as it is, with what water he has access to or trying to stifle the flame with the covers that hide his father’s latest inventions. He tries, until Jarvis comes rushing in, calling for his young master, and caries him out. Until his Father comes rushing in, fire extinguisher in hand, and yells as his mother cries.

 Howard is furious. He shouts, he curses, he slaps Tony hard on the cheek. That night, as Tony lies in bed pretending to be asleep, he hears his mother blaming his father for not securing the lab enough, and hears his father blaming him for entering in the first place.

 All the while, he thinks of the fire he couldn’t control.

 You are not a god, Tony. You were wrong.

 Dedication is not imitation.

 Tony cannot be Loki, and he shouldn’t try to be. Tony is Tony, and he can do great things on his own, and his god will be his beacon, his support and his prize.

 And isn’t that the sweetest of thoughts.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Apparently, his basic premise was flawed.

 Actually, it was faulty reasoning, loathe as he is to admit it.

 First assumption: his god is part of the world, exists in it and through it.

 Common definition of a miracle: an occurrence that happens through a force outside of the known world, or supernatural.

 Therefore, if his god is part of this world, then his god cannot do miracles.

 Damn. (He says this under his breath. Jarvis must never find out about it).

 It’s not that Loki is required to do miracles, it’s not even that he should intervene in Tony’s life as anything more than his beacon and his companion. It’s that it has become ingrained in Tony that miracles have led him to Loki, and Loki creates miracles because miracles are never supposed to happen except that they do.

 He doesn’t like to be wrong, but hey, he’s a genius. Take new data, and adapt the theory.

 New definition: Littlewood’s law states that a miracle is an event with one in a million chances of happening.

 Resulting premise: Loki’s way is to look at the world, see the weakest, most improbable of everything, and sides with it until it rises, unpredictably, and those who can’t deal with the change are swept away.

 Tony smiles in satisfaction. He very much likes that new concept.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 There are only so many reasons for one to follow a god.

 Tony’s change, depending on his mood.

 If you ask him on most days, he will tell you he was bored and this seemed fun enough. If you ask him after a violent fight with his father, he will tell you in a bitter tone than he needs _someone_ to look up to and impress. If you ask him whilst he is in the middle of inventing, and you never will because he never lets anyone in, he’ll tell you about noise and fire and bending metal and rules, and really there is only one person that will appreciate his work. Well, arguably Hephaistos would get it, but he isn’t nearly as fun.

 None of these are lies, really, but they are not the truth either.

 The truth is more complicated, and much simpler still. The truth is that during the night, when he lies in his too large bedroom, when both his parents are gone on some trip he hasn’t even bothered learning the destination of, when the people at his school are too old and too _stupid_ to possibly relate to a fifteen year old genius, Tony is alone.

 He doesn’t want to be.

 He believes in Loki, because he wants to believe that Loki is here with him.

 Howard would be angry if he knew about this. Scientist don’t believe, they know, they demonstrate and everything is false until proven otherwise.

 Axioms, he could argue, commonly admitted truths, held by all although not demonstrated. But Loki isn’t an axiom, Loki is barely known, and is commonly held to be a myth.

 Tony’s fists tighten around his sheets. This is doubt, horrible and painful doubt, made all the worse because it is perfectly reasonable.

 He doesn’t want it, so he goes back to what he knows.

 He knows fire and light and lies.

 He knows chaos, both a theory and not.

 He knows entropy, change, destruction to recreate something not always better, but certainly new.

 Loki is all this, and a god, and if you consider an equation where the whole is greater than the sum of its parts with irrational and imaginary numbers, then maybe….

 It won’t work. Or it might, but Tony cannot do it, cannot prove Loki, and the failure makes him bitter.

 The failure makes him want to try again.

 So he gets up in the middle of the night, walks through the empty mansion (Jarvis has a wife he goes back to every night. Tony doesn’t blame him). He goes all the way to his father’s office, opens the cabinet he isn’t allowed into, and takes the most expensive bottle he can find.

 He goes to the holiest ground he knows, the lab, sets down glass and bottle.

 “I am here to honor Loki,” he whispers, because Loki exists, he has to.

 Pouring the wine in his glass, calling upon his god as strongly as he can. If he exists, if he is there, then he has to be with him tonight. If he god is worth anything, then Tony is not speaking to ghosts.

 If his god is real, then Tony will not be lonely.

 Blackmailing a deity, bad form that. Tony doesn’t care.

 He drinks, maybe one or two more gulps that he strictly needs to, and pours the rest of the glass on the lab’s floor. It’s important, that last part. Finishing the ritual, an offering to both the God and the Earth.

 It also makes the whole endeavor satisfying, if nothing else.

 He doesn’t know what he was expecting, knew not to await bright lights and apparitions. Still, the nothing hurts.

 The empty room is mocking him.

 There should be assistants here, Tony thinks suddenly. Machines, acting on their own, more intelligent than anything ever made before. They wouldn’t even need a body. Less to construct, more time to spend on the coding. Create something truly brilliant and human, and revolutionary.

 The idea washes over him, and stays, possessing him and Tony knows it will never leave. It burns with an intensity that nearly frightens him.

 Divine inspiration, or his own brilliance at work?

 Hard to say.

 Data inconclusive.

 Tony goes back to bed, more defeated than ever.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Two days later, Howard comes back and howls about the stain on the lab floor.

 Tony doesn’t care.

 Five days later, a new kid arrives at school. His name is James Rhodes.

 Tony believes in his god.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Loki has a wife, according to the myths.

 Sigyn in kind, loyal and true, who stays by her husband through all his deeds, great and terrible. They are together until the end, until Ragnarok comes and destroys all, so it can be reborn anew. (Again, destruction and rebirth; people call Loki a villain, for bringing the end of all things, but Tony has always been of the opinion that if something doesn’t work anymore, throw it out and start over. He is amazed so few agree).

 But yeah, Loki and Sigyn, together until the end of times, and arguably a better love story than Romeo and Juliet. Tony is not at all jealous, because it would be absolutely stupid to be jealous of a god most don’t believe exist.

 Anyway, this genius here has Rhodey, the yin to his yang, or rather the order to his chaos. The one who keeps him in line when he has to, even if Tony would never admit that. The one who never tries to reign him in though, who will allow him to spend hours locked up in his lab on some days, because his mind is buzzing with the need to create, to _do._

 Who makes sure Tony eats, who cares enough to enforce it. The only one who does, because Jarvis is at home and there is no one else.

 Rhodey is a godsend.

 Tony would totally marry him, if they weren’t so beautifully platonic.

 Also, Tony has two kids. Dum-E and U, who are really like children in that they are enthusiastic but not all that helpful, and Tony loves them to bits, and maybe 5% of the credit can go to Rhodey just for ensuring that Tony remains alive until completion.

 So yeah, Tony is not saying that he is Loki, because that way lies near death experiences in the form of matches. But he is kinda _like_ Loki, and he is sure that the two of them would be pals, best friends to, and Rhodey would probably like Loki to, if he knew about him.

 But his god is, well, his, and Tony doesn’t share.

 He keeps Loki close to his chest. Right over the heart.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 He always has two flasks with him at all times.

 The people around him will assume it is because he is a hopeless drunk, barely old enough to tolerate alcohol and already hopelessly drowning in it.

 Well, they’re not wrong, but that isn’t the reason why.

 One flask is for him. The other is for Loki.

 It is the perfect solution to the long lasting problem that is discretion. Worshiping demands rituals, rituals involve rules and variables, the kinds you don’t break. Tony is a scientist, so he knows how to work with them, fit parameters and restrictions until he creates something functional and elegant, because he is the best he is.

 The elegance of a man reeking of liquor is hard to spot, but so many of his creations are not understood by the plebeians, why should this be different?

 The beauty here is in the deceit, the truth hidden in plain sight, the ritual done before hundreds of witnesses who will not see what is going on simply because they do not have the vision to do so. Functional, spectacular, and so very much dedicated to his god.

 Pouring the drink into Loki’s flask, the one he had made out of horn. Those who despise him call it pointless spending, he calls it following tradition.

 Raising the flask high up, and it isn’t theatrics. Calling upon his god, oh Loki bless this not-mead, and it is not meaningless mumbling of a drunk man.

 Drink, and be imbued by the one you dedicated yourself to.

 Tony does so with relish.

 It is filled with Loki that he looks upon the rich and conceited anew, that he listens to their drivel and instead of humoring them, he lets his tongue loose.

 Loose, and sharp, and wicked, and true, tearing down secrets and hypocrisy, from high heels to bow ties during cocktails and parties, purposeful and unrelenting. His own Lokasenna.

 He never leaves because of a hammer, but he always leaves hammered. (Heh, get it?)

 (Except Justin Hammer, but he makes every sane one stay away from him.)

 (Hammer, the woman repeller)

 (But Tony isn’t a woman)

 (Loki can be a woman. A very pretty woman. And a woman horse)

 (He just called a woman horse-faced)

 (He’s pretty drunk right now)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 “Hey, um, m’god,” Tony slurs into the emptiness. “How’ya doin? Cause ‘m good.”

 He giggles. “Aw fuck, waddya care how I’m doin’? ‘M not a god –Shhhhh, don’t tell anyon’ I said that.” He snorts. “They wouldn’t believe’ya.”

 “I’d believe you. Cuz we’ve been together for a long time, so we’re best buds, and best buds believe each other.” He startles, suddenly incredibly alarmed. “And don’ tell Rhodey I said that. He’s my touchy-best bud. I can touchy ‘im.”

 He rolls in bed with much more coordination than he should be capable of in his state. Patting around himself blindly, he finds a very long pillow. He smiles like he just discovered perpetual motion, and hugs the glorious bag of feathers tightly, muffling his face in the white cover.

 “Wish I could touch you,” he mumbles with a sigh. “Bet you’r soft….” He sluggishly caresses the pillow before falling asleep.

 When he wakes up to find his bed devoid of any god, he tries very hard not to be disappointed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 His parents die.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 His parents are dead. It is pointless, and stupid, and he feels more alone than he thought possible.

 He becomes CEO, and it’s boring and awful. He tries laying it all on Obie, but the tittle clings to him like a fucking leech, and so do all the responsibilities.

 He is shackled, he is bored, his parents are dead.

 Tony doesn’t really believe anymore.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 He doesn’t have two flasks anymore.

 Or rather, he does, but they are both his.

 His drunken mumbling are just that, and if ever he spills his drink it is because he is too far gone to walk straight.

 He brings woman back home, lots of them. Some of them he doesn’t even bring home. It is done in a closet, in a bathroom stall, in the dark corner of a hallway.

 Redheads, brunettes, small, tall. With freckles, cute moles, he doesn’t pay attention.

 (Loki can change into a woman if he wants).

 He brought home a blond today, green eyes, very pretty. Not too bright, but still smart enough that he could tolerate her company until he was too drunk to care.

 Her name might be Helen.

 She giggles as they stumble into his living room. It is a little too high pitch for his currently very fragile head, because he had some tequila even though it always does this to him, and shit, what the hell is so funny?

 He kisses her to muffle the sound. She responds eagerly.

 She tastes like milk and cookies.

 He pulls back, sharply, and to disguise the knee-jerk reaction he pats her once on the ass, sending her to scurry towards the bed.

 He takes one breath, then two, has to talk himself into this, which is fucking ridiculous. Then he follows her, all but pounces as he nearly tears of her clothing.

 Her skin is disappointingly soft.

 He kisses her again, and tries not to feel like he’s on the rebound.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Virginia Potts comes charging in his office, pepper spray in one hand, a stack of files in the other, and throws that last one on his desk like a proud champion of proper finances.

 She also just totally saved his bacon.

 Not that that accounting mistake would have been enough to sink the company, Stark Industries is way too massive for that, but it would have been a huge bummer, the kind Tony hates dealing with.

 Since he’s an awesome boss, he promotes her on the spot.

 Since she’s awesome, she thanks him by riding his ass and harassing him with paper work until he signs at least 40% of the documents he is supposed to, and attends almost half of the important board meetings. She also cordially escorts his one-night acquaintances out of the building, and shoots down paternity suits with the precision of a sniper.

 She is wonderful, she is discipline and drive, and she will totally have his skin if he doesn’t invest himself in the company at least 10% as much as she does.

 So Tony actually makes an effort, once a week, every other month. The parties he goes to are no longer only to bring back not-Lokis, or to drink himself stupid. They are also to make contacts, for business reasons, or something.

 The only contact he cares about is Rhodey, who has joined the army some time ago. He is his liaison now, and between him and Pepper, Tony is leading Stark Industries to new heights.

 His weapons are the best in the business, the generals hate his attitude but love what he gives them, and when he isn’t making money he indulges himself in every way.

 That’s his life, and it’s enough.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 He has ideas, stunning and brilliant ideas. Ideas that could reshape the world, break boundaries and change lives.

 But there is no one who really wants change. Things should be better, but the same.

 There is no one to see the value of what he does.

 Loki does not exist.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Tony gasps, looking at the bright blue sky. His eyes hurt, his sun glasses must have fallen of sometime during the explosion.

 His chest hurts more though.

 He rips his shirt open, looks at his completely useless bulletproof jacket.

 Shit.

 Shit, shit, shit.

 This is bad. This is worse than bad.

 His vision is already blurring, his muscles failing badly enough that his head falls back on the ground, and he’s staring at that damn sky again.

 He is going to die. He is going to die in fucking Afghanistan, killed by his own weapon, and it isn’t fair, but it isn’t _unfair_ either, and shit.

 Shadows creeping in the corner of his eyes, trouble breathing, those signs really only mean one thing.

 Tony doesn’t want to die.

 He really, really doesn’t want to die.

 So lying on the desert ground, dust in his eyes and lungs, sweating and bleeding, he does what most men do in desperate situations.

 He prays.

 Loki, he cries out, although his mouth won’t move. Loki!

 He is cold, and the sun is hot.

 Please, he thinks, knowing how selfish it is.

 Loki….

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Ragnarok, end of all things and rebirth. Comes with Giants of fire, leaves with an Eternal Winter, and then everything rises anew.

 Tony was dying. He was hot, and then cold.

 And then his eyes flash open and he gasps for breath in a cave.

 There is a magnet in his chest, and a man named Ho Yinsen talking to him in a soft voice.

 Among explanations, and talk of terrorist and weapons and caution, Tony hears Loki, second chance, his god.

 Maybe gods don’t give a damn about dying men, and maybe this is just his own stupid delusion to give his life some meaning.

 But he prayed to Loki, and now he is alive. Against all odds. And it may be the most self-centered reason for a man to rediscover religion, but fuck it, he’s Tony Stark, what did anyone expect?

 This is his moment, he decides. Escape is impossible, his captors have complete power over the situation, and they will ask him to do one weapon after another, no end in sight.

 He will leave this place, spit in the face of those who keep him here and break the cycle before it begins.

 He will succeed, because he is a follower of Loki.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Courage comes in a cave, when he tricks and lies to men with guns, and walks straight into bullets with nothing but metal scraped together to protect him.

 Courage comes when he has to keep going through the desert even though a good man died today, and it’s his fault.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 He comes back, and Pepper and Rhodey are there. He comes back, and tears down what is basically the foundation of his company.

 PTSD, they call it, but whatever, he’ll show them how serious he is. They only need to wait.

 He designs a suit, something that has never been seen before. He puts it to use, and suddenly a man can fly.

 He comes back and…

 Obie betrays him.

 Rebirth is fucking painful.

 (Also, Dum-E turned out to be of vital use. If that’s not a divine intervention he doesn’t know what is.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

  “I am Iron Man.”

 Truth.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Pepper truly is amazing, Tony knows. She is everything a guy could ask for.

 She also likes him, he is almost sure. Really, if there were any woman on earth he should fall in love with, it is her.

 Pepper is at heart a woman of order and rules, which makes her a perfect balance for Tony, but well…

 Tony fell in love with chaos at age seven.

 He won’t lead her on, because that would be cruel. He will follow what he believes in, not because he has to but because he wants to.

 It means not loving Pepper, and although he isn’t sorry, he knows he is missing out on something wonderful.

 Honor and Fidelity, the Tony Stark way.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Agent comes into his tower, bypassing his security. This had better be good.

 “I am Loki, of Asgard,” the insane looking person on the tablet says.

 Loki. Of Asgard. Brother of Thor.

 Oh.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Those who call him undisciplined don’t know shit.

 It takes a lot of Discipline to face Captain America and not yell at him for all Howard has put him through. It takes a lot of Discipline to work with SHIELD when really neither of them like the other.

 It takes more Discipline that he ever thought himself capable of to confront his god in Stuttgart, find him to be nothing but a power hungry wannabe king, and not howl at another betrayal.

 When some hammer wielding lunatic comes to take their prisoner away – and it’s Thor, of course it is, he is exactly like Tony imagined him, the fucker – he chooses to attack. He has a lot of frustration to work through.

 Beating up a god feels pretty good.

 They take Loki into custody, and it feels really shitty.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Tony has spent thirty-four years studying and devoting himself to his God.

 Of course he knows where to find him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Tony has met many people throughout his life, people from all around the world. Some religious, some not. Some that take of their hat before entering church, some who only pray in the intimacy of their own home.

 When Tony meets his god, he does it all the way, in every way he knows or has heard of, because that is what he does: he sees what has been done before many time by many people, and makes it more. JARVIS, the suit, the arc reactor, they are all _more._

So he strips off his armor as he walks, laying himself bare before his deity, in the tower that is both a temple to himself and to Loki. Nothing in between them now, not even armies or Avengers or even the empty space that separates them, because here stand the lonely god and the lone worshiper, and they are both more. Nothing can touch them here.

“Please tell me you’re going to appeal to my humanity,” Loki says, and no, no no no, of course he won’t, he could never. Tony has no use for humans.

 What he wants is the god found in old books and ancient tales, who is so much cooler than Captain America and who accepts milk and cookies from his followers. He wants chaos and deceit and change and rebirth.

 He wants, and as he gazes at the man in front of him, he realizes he will not get.

 This is not Loki

 This is not chaos, this is not change, this is nothing but madness and empty destruction for something as old and stale as a throne.

 Fact: here before him is not his god.

 But Thor exists, and if he does, then so does his brother.

 Conclusion: This is the plan, but the plan is not Loki’s. Loki is a pawn.

 For the first time in his life, Tony finds something truly blasphemous.

 It is an excellent copy, a great idol made of gold horns and blue stones, impressive and charming in his own way. He can see how others could be blinded by it, how even the one who calls himself brother could be led astray from the truth. Even Tony almost succumbed, because a god you can touch is always more enticing than the one that stands away. This Loki had been here, had been close and tangible and beguiling, and the genius almost fell.

 But Tony had strayed once upon a time, and had suffered for it. Rebirth and Renewal had come from the dirt and dust of Afghanistan, when he saw the truth of the God of Lies. He has strayed before, and shan’t be doing it again.

 And so Tony does what most religious men do to gain strength. He prays.

 The wine he pours is not mead, the glass not a chalice, but he looks into his deities eyes as he performs his Blót. Raises his glass before Loki, calls upon him to witness.

 I believe in the God of Chaos, he thinks as he downs the glass.

 He won’t ask for anything, not this time, because he isn’t a fifteen year old anymore, and he does his Blóts properly.

 Through this ritual he reaffirms the Loki he knows, the Loki that is his god and has always been Loki. And maybe the eyes that look at him become a shade greener, and maybe the hand that clutches the scepter loosens a tiny bit. That really isn’t what matters. 

 Here is the important part:

 “I have an army,” says Loki.

 “You shouldn’t need one,” answers Tony.

 The god’s mouth parts in surprise and uncertainty; Tony is used to having that effect on people, so he goes on.

 “Warriors have armies, wars are straightforward and predictable. Trust me, I’ve made it my business for most of my life. Not too proud of that, downright ashamed in fact, but hey, it’s sort of behind me now. You had a part in it. At least, I believe you did.” The motor mouth has come back, good, he had missed it. “Anyway, you’re the trickster, right? Against all odds and all expectations, and this army and throne deal isn’t your gig. You should bring kingdoms down, not try to rule one.”

 “What are you saying, mortal?” Loki’s voice is irritated, but mostly unsure. A god asking his follower for answers.

 Tony is more than happy to give them.

 “I’m saying this isn’t you. At least, I believe it isn’t you, and I know you are so much more than this, at least I hope so, because otherwise I’ve spent over thirty years of my life on a fantasy, and shit,” he runs a hand through his hair. “That would suck.”

 His god comes closer, still, until he is looming over the inventor and the scepter is dangerously close to his heart. But he doesn’t use it, not yet, and that has to mean something, right?

 Tony looks up into blue-green-blue eyes, eyes that are suspiciously shiny and much too fragile.

 “What am I, then?”

 The answer is as it has always been. “You are my god.”

 There is neither light or smoke, no fire or wind or anything that impressive. No scream, no cry, and the two of them don’t move for a very long time.

 “Ah,” Loki whispers, and his breath tickles Tony’s face. The inventor leans into it.

 And meets nothing.

 There is no light, no fire, but in the clatter of a scepter on the ground and the sound of Loki’s absence, the world is saved. Against all odds, the world is saved.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 “I do not understand,” Thor rumbles. “My brother has been changeable in the past, but it is not like him to give up a battle.”

 Tony shrugs on his chair. “I don’t know, Blondie Bear, maybe he just got bored.”

 “You’ve said he was “beyond reason” before,” Natasha points out. “Maybe he wasn’t?”

 “What the hell happened in that tower, Stark?” Clint asks, the natural relief at avoiding a war tainted by being denied revenge.

 “I told you all already,” he replies dismissively. “We talked. I told him why he shouldn’t do the whole conqueror shtick. Then he left, without the scepter.”

 “I do not understand,” Thor mumbles again.

 That’s fine, Tony thinks, I do.

  

 

 

* * *

 

 

 He returns, eventually, when the night is dark and Tony sits alone in his living room.

 It’s okay, though, he had been expecting it. It could be no other way.

 Tony stays seated as his god slowly approaches him. Some would call it disrespectful, not rising to greet him, but those people know nothing. Tony is nothing but veneration, straining to meet Loki even as he lays sprawled on the couch, his eyes never leaving the others’.

 Clear, green eyes, free of chains and taint. Tony is meeting his god for the first time.

 All too soon, finally, Loki stands before him, so very tall. Tony needs to strain his neck to meet his eyes once more; he does so slowly, taking in every inch of dark clothes and pale limbs, and he knows them already, from seven hours ago and since he was seven. And when he has finished, and looks into the two mirrors of a beautiful soul, Tony decides it is the most wondrous sight he will ever see.

 “You are one of mine,” Loki whispers, breaking the silence because it needed to be broken.

 Tony does as he always does: he shrugs, and taunts, and dismisses. “Look, I know you have the whole figurative speech going for you, but I’m Tony Stark. I own a shit tone of stuff, more than I can actually keep track off. I do the owning, not the belonging.” He smirks. “Sorry to disappoint, Bambi.”

 His god merely bends down, and slowly extends his hand to cup Tony’s face. His thumb brushes against his cheek. “You are one of mine.”

 Loki smiles.

 Tony lets out a breath. “Yes.”

 He should know better than to lie to this God.

 Silence, once more. Tony has always hated silence, has always felt the need to fill it with words, rambling and rambling on until he had no one else to talk to, and the buzz of alcohol had to take over so that he wouldn’t have to feel the echo.

 Here and now, though, he couldn’t speak even if he wanted to, which he doesn’t. What he wants is to let Loki trace the side of his face, not say anything as the god slowly lowers himself until his legs are on either side of Tony’s laps, straddling him and keeping him locked against the backrest.. When fingers trail down his chest and rest over the arc reactor, all he wants is to arch into the touch.

 Tony does all those things.

 “I had thought us much out of favor,” Loki finally murmurs. “Long forgotten and put away.”

 The inventor swallows. “Thor says you are not gods.”

 “Oh?” Eyebrows are raised, smirks turn indulgent. “And what do you believe?”

 For the first time since the beginning of the evening, Tony touches in return. His hand slowly trail up Loki’s arm, resting on the shoulder. It doesn’t feel blasphemous.

“I think he should just stick to swinging his hammer and shut up.”

 Loki chuckles then, and his entire face transforms. His grin is small but honest, his eyes crinkling on the side. Tony has the urge to smooth them with his thumb, but he cannot seem to be able to bring himself to move.

 His throat feels dry.

 “The Aesir have long forgotten the truth of seiðr,” the god says quietly. “It is everywhere within Yggdrasil, within every breath and thought. It is belief made truth.”

 He leans closer then, legs tightening slightly around Tony’s. His breath tickles the inventor’s face. “I believe myself a god, you believe yourself my follower.”

 “Therefore I am Loki.”

 “You are one of mine,” Tony answers.

 This startles his god, but only for a moment. Then he laughs again, and smiles, and admonishes gently. “That is against the rules of worship.”

 Tony smirks in return, full of confidence that comes with faith. “So I say it in your name.”

 “One of yours, then…” Loki trails of thoughtfully. He leans closer still, one hand reaching to Tony’s face again, tucking a non-existent lock behind his ear. “One of what, I wonder.”

 “One of my constants,” Tony gasps. “One of my mistakes. One of my greatest decisions. One of my parts.” He breathes shakily. “My suit. My reactor. My god. You’ve been in me since I was seven. Since I was thirty eight. Never at all.” Before he can think, he grasps Loki’s hair, fist clenching tight. “You shouldn’t be caught into anything. I’m glad you no longer are.”

 His god smiles then, sad and gentle and longing and bitter. “I’ve always been. Shackled in Asgard, restrained to one form and trapped by ignorance. Shackled in the Void, drowned in despair and paralyzed by solitude. Shackled by Thanos, betrayed by seiðr and ignored by all.” Then he speaks in wonderment. “Then you prayed, and chains broke, and I truly became your god.”

  “You became as I knew you to be,” Tony whispers.

 “Belief made truth, seiðr in breath and in wine,” Loki agrees. “Through worship you have power over me.” Then he shifts once again, and Tony’s head is cradled in his hands.

 “Shall your god bless you for the service you have given?”

 Tony smiles. Change is coming. It has to happen.

 “I should get some mead, then.”

 His god only smirks. “Foolish, devout thing,” he murmurs against his lips, “There is more than one way to sanctify.”

 And Loki grants him a kiss.

 Tony claims it, greedily, takes more than his share, but this the god freely gives. This is an offering from one to another, for both. It tastes of wine and waiting and milk and cookies. It smells like dust and heat, old parchment in forgotten tomes. He trails Loki’s cheek with his fingers, tracing words that have long been his holy scriptures. There is a hand on the back of his head, because Tony cannot go back, this is rebirth and renewal coming for the God of Flames, and it must be done completely otherwise it is worth nothing at all. He burns, burns with desire and faith and passion, burns to touch as much as he can and hear creation with the tip of his fingers.

 Tony is in the grip of grace.

 They stumble, somehow, they shift, and suddenly Loki is the one leaning against the backrest. Tony is on the ground, kneeling before his god.

 He never had to ask.

 Wordlessly, he starts disrobing Loki, removing once piece of clothing after another, almost painfully slow. This is a ritual, a new one, created on the spot. The rules are new and do not exist. They mean worship.

 When the last chest piece is removed, revealing firm muscles and pale skin, Tony’s breath hitches. It is the most sincere praise he has given. When his calloused hands trail down a white thigh as he pulls down leather tights, Loki exhales something between a moan and a sigh. It is another form of blessing.

 Eventually both their clothes are gone. Tony has no idea where or how his went. Magic, probably.

 Whatever, he doesn’t really care right now.

 They pause once more, Loki still sprawled and Tony kneeling between his legs, hands resting on his thighs. He knows what this looks like, a subservient man before his god, ready to service him in lewd ways. But this isn’t that. Tony feels strong right now, powerful and certain.

 They are here because of him. Because Tony had found his god long ago, then again and once more, had prayed in the top floor of his tower and shaped the deity in Loki’s image, and that is how Loki came to be here.

 They are here because of Loki. Because the god walked the Earth centuries ago, has birthed myths and chaos along with the horses and snakes, and allowed a boy with a book to become Tony Stark, who became Iron Man who came to be here.

 Both are causes and consequences, small acts rippling through time and space to shape the future. Chaos theory and chaos in the flesh, coalescing into the God of Change and the Avenger of the Earth, who should have died but did not, broke the rules and became miracles.

 And Loki is beautiful.

 Tony tells him so, whispers it against smooth skin, making the god gasp. “Am I as you envisioned me, then?” he asks, emotion making his voice shake.

 The inventor chuckles softly. “I’ve never actually tried picturing what you’d look like,” he confesses. “It didn’t seem like the thing to do.”

 “Reality always pales in the face of imagination,” Loki’s voice is full of understanding, and sadness. “That way lies disappointment.”

 “No, no, you’ve got it all wrong,” Tony corrects him, raising himself on his knees so that they are face to face. “Look, I’ve read all the myths, right? You’ve been a dude, a woman, a horse and several other animals, I tend to lose track. But my point is, in all those stories, you are Loki.”

 “So, it doesn’t matter what you look like, really, since it changes all the time and I can’t really seem to pick which on is my favorite, sort of changes with my mood, you know? Lots of variable, lots of random chance, the one constant is that you are Loki, no matter what you are.”

 And oh no, he catches a glimpse of tears in those eyes, hears an aborted sob, and this isn’t at all what he intended to happen. Tony presses closer still, pulling his god tight against him. “Lies,” Loki whispers, but he lacks conviction.

 “Nah,” Tony answers softly, lifting the gods chin ever so gently. “You’d know.”

 But if it is proof Loki wants, then Tony will give it to him. He couldn’t prove Loki before, but Loki is here now, is an acceptable axiom, and the demonstration is simple, if irrational.

 Loki is Tony’s god, Tony’s god has always been Loki.

 Therefore Loki has always been Loki.

 (Side note: Tony loves his god)

 So he settles to work then, trailing fingers and lips down a pale neck, sucking slightly just above the collar bone. Loki gasps, and clutches.

 Tony continues, caressing strong arms and lean muscles, feeling them relax under his touch.

 He meets soft curves and round breasts, and whispers praises against them.

 His fingers trail over blue skin and raised ridges, and he kisses them reverently.

 And then he isn’t sure what is happening, but he somehow finds himself on the ground, flat on his back, Loki looming over him, red eyes never leaving his. Tony’s mouth opens slightly, but he isn’t sure what he means to do.

 Then he is being kissed within an inch of his life, and yeah, that works very nicely.

 Hands nudge his thighs apart, slick fingers tracing in between them over very thin skin, making Tony buck up with a cry. Loki shushes him, before distracting him once more with a kiss as he effortlessly lifts up his hips and start circling his entrance.

 Tony gasps as the first finger enters him. This isn’t new exactly, he has done this before, but he has never _cared_ so much, never with someone he loves – love, love, he loves, a lifetime with someone tends to do that to people and –

 And another fingers adds itself to the other, in a slow stretch, and he really needs to claw at something. The carpet won’t do, much too short, so he tries the next closest thing, Loki himself. But his hands are sleek with sweat, and Loki’s body is so smooth, so they slip before he can find any firm grip, and he is left a moaning and rutting wreck on the floor.

 He cannot control anything, cannot catch or tame, and Loki isn’t doing anything in particular for it to be so. He just is, is just here, and because of that all Tony can do is ride the wave, hoping not to drown and knowing that when it crashes it will be something beautiful.

 He laughs, because this is perfect.

 When the hot length finally enter him, Tony believes in his god.

 He is pulled up against Loki’s chest, held tightly by strong arms that have turned white again, and it is all he can do to hold on for dear life as his god periodically hits that spot inside him, making his world burst into white flames. A hand on the back of his head pulls him closer still, until his ear is right next to Loki’s mouth.

 “You are divine, Stark,” he whispers, making Tony hiccup and moan. “A miracle of resourcefulness and drive. I’ve learned about you, in my short stay here. One man above all others, worth thousands of them and more, daring to walk up and defy his god, out of loyalty for his own realm.”

 “Virtues…” Tony gasps. “For you…”

 Loki chuckles, hand trailing down his spine then back up again. “Oh, how you please me, Stark. Please me more than any other can or will. I used to be so envious of those around me, of the worship they claimed seemingly effortlessly. Oh, what a fool I was.” He turns his head to press of quick kiss to Tony’s lips, and pulls back before his worshiper can even think of deepening it. “Let them have the dull, common drivel that throw themselves at them. Let them have the easily obtained, who are never worth more than their weight in meat.”

 “Let them, for my one prize is worth more than they will ever have. The man who reshaped his world, created the impossible through fire and brilliance. You, my most beloved worshipper, are Yggdrasil’s finest creation, an agent of change in your own right, untamable and unmatchable.” He sighs in contentment. “I am your god, and I venerate you so.”

 Tony moans, the words hitting some deep need inside him he rarely ever acknowledges. “You are the only one I could worship,” he mumbles against the god’s skin. “You were like me, for me…. _My_ god!”

 “And you are mine, beyond anything else.” Loki is panting now as well, and somehow manages to grip Tony’s hair firmly enough to pull at his head until they are face to face. “Do you comprehend that, my mortal? You have dedicated yourself to me, and I shall take all that you are. Defender, inventor, leader of your people, are you willing to be mine as well?” His eyes flash red for a second, and somehow that pushes Tony further towards the edge. “Would you be my follower, my priest? My offering and my tribute? I would have you free, Tony, I would _have_ you, and you will be all, and you will be mine, and you will know what it is to be loved by a god.”

 “Please,” Tony hiccups, not coherent enough to say more. He doesn’t even know what he is asking for. His vision is blurring, the white hot pleasure coming from Loki’s trust adding themselves from the bliss of the occasional friction of his length against a hard chest. He is close, so close, he wants to fall over and he never wants this to stop. “I want… Please…”

“Pray, my worshiper,” his god murmurs in his ear. “Pray to your god, and he will listen, for he is yours.”

 And at that Tony’s world explodes into sights and noise, wind and light coalescing into something beautiful.

 He falls back, and Loki follows, crying out his own pleasure as he does so. They land side by side, and before anything else Tony holds the god to him as tightly as possible.

 “You don’t have a wife, do you?”

 Loki laughs, soft and gentle. “Nay, my mortal. I do not.”

 “Good,” Tony mumbles before falling asleep right there on the ground. The last thing he sees is Loki’s skin, as white as a pillow case, and he hopes he won’t be fighting disappointment when he wakes up.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 When Tony wakes up, he finds his god looking at him, a glass of wine in hand.

 Loki takes a sip, and so does Tony.

 They hold the glass together, and pour their offering on the ground.

 

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing a smut scene, an important question arises: who bottoms?  
> I spent many hours debating that, and ended up writing a draft with both.


End file.
